


No Trousers

by Poompoom



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019), Horrible Histories
Genre: Julian is an asshole, Other, bitchboy, i love him tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 13:47:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18942238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poompoom/pseuds/Poompoom
Summary: Deceased Conservative MP Julian Fawcett is faced with Death himself, who laughs in his face, probably due to his lack of clothing.





	No Trousers

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhhhhhh im new to this but this was inspired by discussion on the ghosts discord (ghiscord)

Julian was dead; he knew that much. And he was standing in a line.  
He knew he was dead because a tacked-up MDF board displayed the words ‘You Are Dead.’ across where a doorless doorway leered in the strangely well-lit corridor.  
Looking back, there didn’t seem to be any end to it. Furthermore, the front of this queue did not seem to be approaching, either. The walls weren’t quite walls.  
Even someone as hubristic as Julian should have been panicking (I’m dead! How did I die?) but calm had washed over him as if he was snorting something from the Home Secretary’s stash again. He never dared ask the bloke what exactly was in the mixture of fine white powders, but it often did the trick before a particularly boring meeting in the Houses or Parliament. Everyone else in the line seemed equally as docile. Julian had definitely realised he was no longer on the mortal plane, but he had accepted it. He stared woozily at the overhead sign.  
The man behind him had either died in a particularly authentic stag do costume, or he was genuinely a Roman soldier. Julian had studied Latin at Harrow, and then dabbled in some cult rituals in the language in Cambridge, so he began trying to form a basic sentence in his head, but was surprised when the bloke began the conversation himself in Perfect English (with an odd Lancashire twang). 

“Mate, you’ve got no trousers on.”

Golly, had he really met his demise while trouser-less? He racked his brain for his last living memories, but nothing came to him. Knowing him, it was probably sex-related. 

He looked down. Shoes? Check. Socks and garters? Most Definitely. Trousers? No. And nothing beneath his low-hanging shirt either. Cripes. Definitely sex related. He turned to the Roman man, smiled his wide, thin-lipped smile and extended his hand.

“Sorry to get off on the wrong foot. Julian Fawcett MP, from about nineteen ninety one.”

The man did not understand his offer of a handshake nor a word he’d said, which was only solidified by his subsequent statement. 

“You are speaking Latin to me sir, but I do not understand a word that you say.” 

“Ah.”

The conversation ran dry. 

“How did you die?” Julian asked. “I’m racking my brains but I cannot come to think of how I came to be standing in purgatory with half my garments missing.”

The Roman sighed. “I don’t remember exactly why, but why don’t we take a wild guess?” 

He turned around, exposing the hilt of a very long blade. 

“Ah.” came Julian again.

A light suddenly appeared. It was cheap, like something he’d seen in the town hall of his constituency. Was the afterlife really this low budget? Said light was floating above his head with no apparent wires. It gave out with a feeble sizzle and plunged the whole corridor into darkness. 

In this darkness, Julian began to remember his final memories. He felt his cheeks going red, redder than the time he’d been pantsed at pre-prep. He was pantsed for ever now. 

And then he was in a room with no discernible walls and in front of him sat Death. 

Death was not an imposing figure after about two seconds of scrutiny.  
Death was behind a cheap table not dissimilar to an interview desk. There were fairy lights pinned across it. And Death was not a gnarled, wispy skeleton, no. There was no red light seeping through his eye sockets. 

He was bloke in face paint. 

He was literally not a skeleton. This was a man who had applied somewhat decent snazaroo to his face, adorned himself in a many-buttoned robe and cloak and bleached his long hair white. Julian could have laughed.

But it seemed that Death was doing he same for him. Before even being asked his name, the man let out a sputter that was not far from his own, but more guttural. This then became giggling, which led to a roaring guffaw. He punched the shoulder of a plastic skeleton in a wig (which was positioned next to him) while he tried to regain his breath. 

Julian felt a lot more naked than he actually was. 

After a few exasperated “I love my job”s from Death, who, upon speaking, revealed another set of teeth under his painted-on ones, which was unnerving to say the least, he regained his composure. 

“Name?” He asked.

“Julian Cecil Piers Morgan Fawcett, to be exact.” Was the answer. 

“PIERS MORGAN?” came the roar back.

“Yes, like the journalist.”

“No, the television presenter. Oh, you should see how he snuffs it.” 

“I won’t know that, sir. I assume he dies after myself.”

Death checked off something on a roll of parchment. “Year of death, Mister Fawcett?”

“Nineteen ninety one.” Julian recalled. “A.D.” he added. 

“Oh, yes. Well before Mister Morgan kicks the bucket. Your job?”

“Conservative Member of Parliament for Guildford.”

“I’ll just put entitled posh boy, then.” said Death, scraping ink over his page. 

Julian frowned to himself. Death was not wrong. 

“And how did you die?”

After much flustered explaining, which involved the names of many women (and men) and the unravelling of strange position names, Julian finally managed to blurt our exactly how he had died. And it was not child friendly. 

Death by this point had nearly died laughing. Was that possible? Julian pondered to himself. 

“I love my job. I DO, I really DO. Can’t show that one on CBBC though.”

“What’s CBBC?” Julian directed. 

“Never you mind!” Death was amongst another fit of laughter, which sounded like air being let out of a tyre. He pointed a shaking gloved hand towards a previously concealed archway made of two glittery plastic scythes. 

“You’re through.”

Julian turned towards it and made the hasty journey, which faded from the endless black expanse into a dimly lit room. 

He recognised it. Button House. He did not recognise, however, the occupants within it. He sensed that they were all dead, like him. Ghosts! But who were they?

 

A puffy-shirted man in his thirties judged silently, his slim form carelessly flung across a withered chaise lounge. 

A 1940s army captain coughed nervously, hiding his bristly grey moustache behind his hand. Clearly gay. Julian would get back to that later. 

An elaborately dressed up Georgian lady was trying not to stare at his crotch. 

He took more of them in. Bigfoot? No, that was a caveman. He could smell the charred washerwoman even from the moderate distance she was away from him. A short, tubby Scout leader waved at him politely. 

But the first thing Julian felt was his ears being boxed. He was knocked to the floor. An old woman with pursed lips stood over him. 

“A gentleman must never do unspeakable things in the drawing room!” She shrieked. 

Had they seriously watched him die like that?


End file.
